


memories of violets dance in their eyes

by ellarree



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Love Never Dies - Lloyd Webber, Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber
Genre: Angst, Bisexual Christine Daaé, Canon Compliant, Createcember 2020, F/F, Headcanon: meg killed herself after LND, I Will Go Down With This Ship, I rewrote the final scene with megstine in mind, Implied/Referenced Suicide, LND!meg is CLEARLY gay for Christine, Language of Flowers, Lesbian Meg Giry, POV Third Person Limited, Tragedy, Unrequited Love, Violets, megstine, sorta - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-04
Updated: 2020-12-04
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:41:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 763
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27887704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ellarree/pseuds/ellarree
Summary: rewrite of the end of LND, with a megstine twist
Relationships: Christine Daaé/Meg Giry, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 6





	memories of violets dance in their eyes

**Author's Note:**

> Written for day 4 of my createcember challenge! Prompt: Tragedy
> 
> Credit to @/lovelylottie._ on instagram for the headcanon that meg kills herself at the end of LND

* * *

A woman and a child stand at the edge of a pier. The child is not hers, but he _could’ve_ been hers, but for Him. For both men, really, though only one has ever really raised this boy. This precious, innocent little boy — only ten years old! — who has done no wrong.

The pistol tucked into Meg’s belt presses uncomfortably against her ribcage, already struggling to contain her racing heart. Her heart, beating like it’s running out of time — because it is, because it knows somehow that the gun has only one bullet, that the boy was never going to be the victim. A victim of something, perhaps. He will be the one to run crying, coattails splashed with her blood, back to his mother. He will tell of Meg’s death, and Meg will never have to see the teary eyes of her dearest friend as she wonders why it all went wrong.

God, what will Christine think? Will she mourn for little Meg Giry the ballerina? The innocent, too-curious dancer from the Opera Populaire, who would bring violets to braid in her hair? Who watched as her more–than–best friend drifted away, cut loose from Meg, her rock, by a demon masquerading as an angel? That girl has been dead for years. For ten long years, there has been only Meg Giry, Coney Island’s Ooh-La-La Girl (five shows daily!). Meg Giry, who at last knew the allure of being set adrift by an Angel of Music, who knows better than anyone save perhaps her dearest youthful companion the dangers of going too far with no safety net?

* * *

A pair of once-lovers flails blindly through a crowd of grinning lights and spinning flames, battered by a current of bodies and yet clinging to a single goal.

A woman stands on a pier, grasping at the only thing she is certain of and knowing not that there are others in need of her. A boy grips the safety rails tightly, knuckles white as bone, as his world is turned upside down and every pillar in his life is toppled, salt and sand spilling from within empty hopes and broken promises.

Illusions peel away as relentless waves beat against the shore and a heartbeat begins to slow. A woman dressed all in blue, vibrant as the depths of the sea, rushes towards the pier. A man in a fashionable, slightly disheveled suit holds her back. The boy finds someone to cling to, and the dancer weeps.

Meg Giry, vaudeville starlet, pulls a pistol from her waistband and is unable to see that tears of love stream onto vivid blue feathers. There are no wild violets on Coney Island to remind her of what once was. For her, those memories died with the Opera Populaire — but the songbird remembered, for all these long, torturous years. A single bullet clicks into place, one motion away from firing, and a dancer’s trembling hands match the quivers in her voice as she relives her darkest moments in her head, staring down into the shadowed barrel of the gun. She does not weep, but she mourns.

The man in the mask cannot see the love in those tears, cannot see the loving resignation in those quaking hands. He has never been able to see their love. Even back in the when the two broken women were just two star-crossed young romantics, he paid no heed to Meg.

Christine gave him everything, would’ve torn her voice and soul from a ragged chest and pressed it into his hands if he’d asked it, but she would never give him her heart. Her heart always belonged to another, belonged to regal violets tucked into her curls and scattered on her pillow. The world saw a radiant songbird and Meg only saw love, forbidden and all the stronger for being so.

As long as they have life, they can never be together. Too many boys fight over the both of them, and Christine is too vulnerable to their wandering stares, Christine has always adored them. Meg has eyes only for one woman, but Christine was always freer with her heart.

(There is only one bullet in the chamber, but the crashing tides can be just as deadly.)

The man is talking, and Meg does not hear save for a single word.

_**”Christine.”** _

A dancer points a pistol and pulls the trigger, heart scarcely moving at all. A woman in vibrant blue and dull red collapses to the ground, and two broken souls fall into death together, memories of violets dancing in their eyes.

**Author's Note:**

> i wrote this while listening to les mis and you best believe i cried


End file.
